Subtle Deception
by Dreams2Paper11
Summary: Skeleton Key AU: Because really, what if Sarov had, at last minute, reconsidered his decision to have Alex killed? In an alternate universe where Sarov's plan to nuke Russia actually succeeds, Alex is left to struggle in the aftermath to adjust to his new life as Sarov's unwilling son, and still stay true to his own ideals. Featuring emotionally-unstable!Alex and fatherly Sarov.
1. Chapter 1

**Ugh, I should not be doing this. But this little dribble refused to leave me alone and has effectively blocked ALL of my other story muses. So anyway, this takes place in Skeleton Key, towards the end. I've only read a handful of fics where Sarov is featured more prominently in Alex's life, which stinks, because Sarov is definitely my fav villain of the entire series. This fandom needs more Sarov. :[**

**Also, since I have fallen in love with the name "Alexei" (the General's name) I've made it so that's what Sarov intends to change Alex's name to its Russian form. Lastly, I do not speak Russian. When I make mistakes in the future, which I will do, somebody take mercy on me and correct them. **

**Disclaimer: This is called FAN-FICTION. Why the heck would anybody think I'd own it?**

**Enjoy. And you, reader, yeah, I'm talking to you-please write a Sarov story for me, 'kay? :)**

******Ooo00000ooO**

For once in his life, no quick, witty comeback lashed out venomously from Alex's sharp tongue.

Quite simply, he did not know what to say. What _could _one say in this situation? He stared straight ahead, looking at the steel plating of the submarine that broke the water's surface. His death bobbed placidly beneath the waves, only forty feet away. He ran that last sentence through his head once again and mentally jeered at himself. It was a strange feeling; to have realized his imminent death and accepted it with only the special calm that a man doomed to the gallows can muster.

"Alexei," the General said softly, and Alex reigned in the urge to hit the man. He was not his son. When would he learn that? He would _never_ be his son!

The gentle feel of calloused fingers suddenly brushed his cheek in pained resignation, and Alex could not stop himself from making his last mistake—he looked briefly into the man's eyes.

They suddenly seemed tired, and—though Sarov would never admit it—quite sad. A cool breeze rippled through the air, stirring Alex's fair hair, and Sarov withdrew his hand, tucking it into his coat pocket.

"Tell me," Sarov said suddenly, "why you refused my offer? Haven't you longed for a father? To be a part of an actual family?"

Alex's brow twitched in agitation. His cool demeanor was rapidly crumbling. How was it that the General could read him so easily?

Alex's jaded brown eyes lingered once more on the sub. He didn't want to die. He really didn't.

"Of course I have," he said softly. His hands tightened on the dock's metal guardrail. Below him, water lapped at the underside of the steel sheets. "But I never quite imagined my father to be like _you_," he added, unable to keep the bitter bite from sharpening his words.

There was a pause in the solemn conversation, and suddenly, Alex heard an ominous click, and then felt a cold touch of something to his upper body. He turned—then froze.

Sarov was pressing a gun's metal muzzle—a needle gun?—against his shoulder. "Well," the man said. His blue eyes—so old only seconds ago—were now like two chips of sharp ice, frigid and unwelcoming.

But there was also determination.

"I suppose we'll just have to change that, won't we?"

Alex only had time to comprehend what the General meant—that he'd rescinded his decision to kill him!—before Sarov pulled the trigger. The gun quietly discharged a hollow needle that easily pierced his shirt's flimsy material and punctured his skin. A strange throbbing pulsed from the area, rushing up his shoulder and down his side in a cool wave. Alex stumbled, vaguely feeling the General kneel beside him and quickly unlatch the handcuffs. Shapes and colors blurred together and a thick silence stuffed Alex's ears as he fell to his knees, then slumped on his side. The chilled, smooth surface of the dock pressed against his cheek.

He managed to think, _What… does that… me—?"_

But then the darkness prowling at the corners of his eyes dragged him under and he surrendered to the pulling depths of sleep.

**Ooo00000ooO**

Sarov knelt, picking up Alex's limp body. The unconscious teen slumped in his arms, his head lolling loosely against Sarov's chest. His fair blonde hair fell into his eyes, and Sarov spared the second to tenderly brush the ends out of the way. Once again, he was somewhat startled by Alex's extreme physical alikeness to his Vladimir. It was uncanny. He'd told the boy there was a "slight resemblance" but in reality, Vladimir and Alex could have been brothers, twins even, only Vladimir's hair was slightly darker.

The cold sun broke through the barrier of gray clouds overhead, letting a single ray beam down from the heavens to land directly on the metal dock, where Sarov crouched with Alex in his arms. In that second, he knew he had made the right choice, and he smiled grimly as he digested what his rash actions only seconds ago could have led to. What a mistake he might have made.

No, it was better this way.

He glanced down at the slumbering teen as he stood powerfully and made his way off the dock, his combat boots echoing as they thudded against the steel sheets. He passed a silently fuming Conrad and sent him a sharp look, not slowing his pace. The mismatched, hulking figure had to hobble quickly to keep up with him until they reached the plane.

_My dear Alex, _he thought fondly, watching the boy's chest rise and fall steadily as he set him down in his luxurious jet seat. He buckled the teen in securely and then took his place in the swivel chair, anchored to the ground, a few feet away. _You said you never imagined your father to be like me?_

His eyes hardened. He laced his fingers together and propped his chin on them, smiling ponderingly. The pleasant smile warred with the cold gleam in his washed-out blue eyes.

_I suppose we'll just have to change that._

**Ooo00000ooO**

His whole body ached.

It felt like he had gone another round with Miss Africa in Point Blanc. His bicep radiated soreness especially.

_Just like a flu shot, _he thought drowsily, but that was enough to get him thinking of needles, and then, subsequently, remember what had taken place.

The bomb!

He tried to force his sticky eyelids open, but they clung together resolutely like glue, and anyway, he was so tired… maybe just a few seconds more…

… _No! Get up! _He screamed at himself. He mustered the willpower to try once more, and this time, he succeeded, managing to pry apart his crusted eyelids. His vision was blurry. Colors and outlines mixed like paint, never settling. He could feel a barely audible thrum of power coming from somewhere around him. An engine?

His head tipped forward onto his chest as he blinked several times, waiting for the muted, numb sort of silence that encompassed his body to drain away.

There was something soft and comfortable, yet suitably supportive, holding him upright, and another thin thing pinning him effectively—the seat and belt, he realized sluggishly. It was hot. He was sweating, and his shirt stuck to the seat, making his back feel damp.

He was very confused and horribly dizzy, and the throbbing headache lurking behind his eyelids was not helping matters. He should be dead, he knew this vaguely, and he grasped onto the thought with iron will, using it to anchor him to consciousness.

But… he wasn't dead. And that frightened him the most.

Something suddenly cast a shadow over him, and the next second, a hand—deliciously cool—pressed lightly against his forehead. Alex could not stop the small sigh of relief that puffed past his lips at the soothing contact against his agitated skin.

"Turn the heat down, I think," a voice ordered softly, somewhere above him. "It is much too hot in here."

Alex's eyebrows drew together in puzzlement. He knew that voice. He did. If only he could clear his muzzy head enough to think straight…

"I apologize for this in advance, Alexei," the voice spoke again, closer to him this time, right next to his ear. "But I seem to have underestimated your acquired immunity to sedatives. No matter, I will not make the same mistake again."

Alex groaned weakly in protest, managing to roll his neck to the side. His eyelids fluttered once more as raspy, dry inhalations irritated his sandpapery throat. _"No… stop…"_

Small clinking sounds of metal brushing metal.

"No, Alexei, I will not," the General said calmly—for now Alex recognized the deep, lightly accented voice—and the next second, Alex felt a small prick in his arm, above one of his prominent blue veins. A deadened ache diffused from the area, rapidly encompassing his body in a curiously numb sensation.

"This is for your own welfare," he heard the man say emotionlessly, but the sound was distorted and muffled in Alex's ears, like Sarov had spoken from deep inside a cave.

"We shall speak more when you awaken fully." Steely resolve had firmed Sarov's statement, and in the last dregs of consciousness, Alex realized—with an apt amount of dread—that the general was still not pleased with earlier actions.

"However, until then..."

Alex's head fell against the padded seat and his eyelids drowsily slipped shut.

"You may sleep and gather your strength. After all, we do have quite a few busy weeks ahead of us."

But Alex was already deeply unconscious, blissfully unaware of his perilous situation.

**Ooo00000ooO**

**All right, the end of the prologue. Review please. :) I'm sure if you clicked this story that you obviously like Sarov, and want me to actually continue this little fic, and reviews help motivate me. See you all next chappie.**

**God bless and good night.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Wow! Thank you to everyone who reviewed! **

**Sadly, this will be the only update for a bit, because I plan on getting back into the groove and updating my other stories for a change. I'll try to update before my spring break begins (it's about two weeks away.)**

**It's 10:34 p.m. where I live, and I am really tired, so please overlook any spelling/grammatical mistakes you find.**

Chapter 2

Ooo00000ooO

When Alex opened his eyes again, his headache had receded slightly, though the achiness in his muscles, especially in his bicep, had intensified.

He sat up slowly, his head spinning slightly, wiggling his bare toes and brushing them against the soft, silken sheets. The room he was occupying was one of utmost luxury, almost as grand and elegant as his one as Casa de Oro. However, the color scheme was slightly darker, with more muted colors and cool undertones. Alex swung his legs over the side of the bed, suppressing a yawn that bubbled up in his throat, his eyes still droopy with sleep, half-mast.

As his feet touched the cold wooden floor, memories crashed over his head like a wave, and he instinctively froze, his foggy brown eyes clearing as he processed what had happened.

He'd _failed_. He'd failed to stop the bomb.

And now…

His fingers tapped a frantic rhythm on the thick comforter as he thought hard. And now… Sarov had kept him alive, even though Alex had clearly shown his disobedience and defiance. Why, though? For what ulterior motive? A hostage situation?

… No, Sarov required no hostage. Alex admitted that the General probably already had the whole entire country eating out of the palm of his hand. He would need no hostage to force other countries to respect him if he was backed by a passionate nation.

So then—

He gritted his teeth, gnashing them so hard he heard their grating clicks reverberate along his jaw. No. No _way_. After everything he had done… Sarov, perhaps, was giving him a second chance?

Well, fine. Alex would use every chance he got to get out of here alive, and somehow get to Britain once more. Then he could warn somebody, get help from MI6.

He relaxed slightly, comforted by the idea of having a plan, however vague it might be. Yes, he only needed to get to Britain and alert MI6, and then his work would be finished. He'd never have to deal with the insane, psychotic General ever again.

The thought helped soothe his rising panic, and he took several deep breaths to slow his heartbeat, recalled his training, and began to observe his surroundings more thoroughly.

There was an outfit laid out for him at the foot of his bed. He'd missed it at first glance when he'd accidentally hidden it under his blankets. It was composed of a nice pair of black slacks, a blue plaid dress-shirt with sleeves that folded at the elbow, and shined black shoes with knee-high socks.

He carried the pile to the bathroom annex and set it down on the smooth marble countertop, turning his back purposefully to the door. His eyes rapidly flicked around the room's corners and nooks and crannies, searching for hidden cameras. He was just realizing how he didn't exactly know how far Sarov's paranoia went. Would the man place cameras or sensors in a _bathroom_?

The eerie question raised goosebumps on his skin, and he suddenly became aware of how little he actually knew about the man.

He checked under the sinks, in the taps, on top of the closet doors, in the shower, under the thick rugs, and even under the toilet lids, but, to his relief, he found none.

Hesitantly, he shed his clothing, folding the dirty articles neatly and placing them on the closed toilet seat, and then stepped into the shower.

The spray was warm and hot, instantly unknotting his muscles and softening his filth-encrusted hair. There was a bottle of shampoo and conditioner perched on a ledge near the showerhead. Alex flipped open the cap of the shampoo and sniffed experimentally. It didn't exactly seem suspicious.

He turned it over in his hands, almost dropping it once because of its water-slicked surface, and looked at the label.

It had been peeled off. He could see small white bits of glue and paper that had been left behind. No shipping company, no refund address—no potential means of getting outside contact. Sarov really had thought of everything.

He sighed and worked the shampoo into his hair, rubbing it into a sudsy lather.

Ooo00000ooO

He dressed in the bathroom when he was finished with his shower. Another chill rolled up his spine when he found the clothes fit him perfectly. Had someone measured him while he slept? The thought sent a flashback racing through his head—of when he'd been at Point Blanc, drugged unconscious while a team of highly skilled plastic surgeons photographed every inch of his body.

He grimaced, feeling violated.

In a small gesture of rebellion, he tore a strip of cloth from the hem of his old shirt and tied it around his wrist in a sort of bracelet. A small, pointless token, really, but it made Alex feel better all the same.

He toweled his hair dry and stepped out of the bathroom, steam snapping at his heels and flaring past him as he exited.

"I trust everything was satisfactory, no?"

Alex withheld his flinch of surprise and silently pivoted on his heel. Sarov sat on the edge of his bed. He was still in full military dress, his chest shining with medals, his blue eyes as blank and guarded as ever.

"The bombs?" Alex asked bluntly. His fingers twitched restlessly at his sides, yearning to curl into fists, but Alex was determined not to show his emotions.

Sarov gave a genuine, pleasant smile.

That was all the answer Alex needed.

The fourteen year-old averted his face, shame boiling in his gut. He'd never failed—at least, not to this magnitude. He felt awful.

"MI6 were fools to send a child into their war," the General said simply. Alex knew that Sarov meant for that to be placating in some way, but instead it stained his mouth with a bitter taste. "You could not possibly have expected to stop me. You came valiantly close, though, I'll admit. I shall always respect your fighting spirit, Alexei. I am very much the same way—very determined, very efficient."

Alex's vision hazed slightly with red. He'd never been so helplessly enraged before in his life. His muscles trembled in restrained anger.

"Don't compare me to you!" He snarled. "Don't _ever!"_

Sarov looked as if he had expected Alex's reaction. The man chuckled humorlessly. "As you wish, Alexei." Sarov stood, and though he was not extraordinarily tall, his presence demanded attention, and Alex found his eyes unwillingly trained on the imposing, cut figure.

"However, I believe I am obligated to lay down some ground rules. Curfew is ten o'clock. You are not permitted outside the house. You will eat the food that is given to you and obey the commands of any personnel. If you chance an escape, though I can assure you that whatever scheme your capable brain concocts will not succeed, I will have you whipped accordingly." He paused, then added, "By Conrad. I'm afraid the man would be terribly eager to carry out your punishment."

Alex shoved back the tendril of fearful anticipation writhing in his heart.

"As your father, it is my duty and right to enforce these rules. You will find that I can be a very accommodating person when my laws are obeyed peacefully, without protest."

Alex bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood, hot and metallic in his dry throat. He could not anger Sarov—not now. He needed to lull the man into a sense of trust in order to loosen any of the restrictions.

Sarov snapped his fingers crisply. Three guards entered the room a moment later, dressed in drab soldier's clothing. Two of them swept Alex's feet out from under him and pinned him to the ground, using the weight of their bodies to keep him down. Alex immediately struggled. He bit at the guard's arm that encircled his throat, but his teeth could not penetrate the thick clothing. He tried to force his head backwards into the man's chin, but the soldier foresaw the move and slammed Alex's already sore head against the wooden floorboards. Alex's struggles slackened for only a moment, but that was all the third soldier needed.

The man quickly knelt by Alex's outstretched leg. Alex heard the sound of locks being unsnapped and, with some difficulty, turned his face. The man lifted something slim and silver from the steel briefcase, darting forward and slipping it around Alex's ankle. It felt smooth and cold on his skin. The guard clicked it shut, then closed the briefcase and stood, marching past the watching General and out the bedroom door. The two soldiers holding Alex down immediately followed.

All of this was done without a single word being spoken.

Alex jackknifed to a sitting position, wincing as his head pulsed in pain. He lifted his pants leg.

An innocuous, thin metal circlet was clasped securely around his ankle. A tiny, circular green light inlaid in the bracelet blinked every ten seconds. Alec wedged his nails underneath it and tugged. It didn't budge a bit. The green light seemed to be mocking him.

"That is a tracker bracelet," Sarov informed him calmly, arms folded behind his back. "It allows me to tell wherever you are on this planet using global satellites. It also scans your health once a week. In addition…"

Sarov raised his hand. A trigger device strapped to his wrist activated with a small mechanized whir, and a small handheld portion dotted with buttons slid into his waiting palm. His fingers molded around it perfectly.

Alex saw it a moment before it came. Sarov lightly pressed a button with his thumb.

And suddenly, Alex could not move.

His limbs locked together and grew stiff. His fingers twitched spasmodically as horrible, _horrible _pain wiped out every single coherent thought. It was, quite honestly, the worst pain Alex had ever experienced. He could not blink. He could not breathe. He could not even cry out for mercy, so scrambling, utterly mind-numbing was the agony. His mouth remained shaped in a perfect _o _and his tongue flopped distressingly in his mouth.

Sarov gradually eased his thumb off the button moments later. Air rushed back into Alex's deflated lungs and he instantly collapsed sideways, shaking badly as his fragmented consciousness attempted to piece itself together again. His body curled up into the fetal position, his eyes screwed shut.

"That… was only a sample of what you will experience should you somehow ever manage to succeed in escaping," Sarov said coldly, and Alex knew that the demonstration had been retribution for his earlier stunt at escaping, before Sarov had changed his mind at the quay. "In the event that you make it out of this compound, I will activate this button. You will, eventually, pass out from the pain and distress signals radiated from every cell in your body. Then I will track you down, and then I will collect you, and then I will punish you."

He turned smartly on his heel and tapped away, pausing just long enough to linger in the doorway. "Dinner is at six. I expect your attendance and good behavior."

Then he left, leaving Alex trembling on the blessedly cool floor behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Hey guys! I'm sorry I took a bit longer than I predicted, but I took a two-week long hiatus from internet because I felt like it was starting to rule my life, lol. Did everyone have a good Easter? Mine was great. :)**

**Enjoy the chapter. Sarov is so hard to write. :( I wish Horowitz had gone into more detail about his character. I was actually kind of ticked because he had the chance to do an AWESOME villain/hero relationship and he just killed off Sarov in the end. :( AND HE JUST MAKES ALEX GO THROUGH THE REST OF THE SERIES LIKE WATCHING SOMEONE SHOOT THEMSELF IS PERFECTLY FINE! Ugggh!**

**Cough, anyway, thank you for all the reviews. AND SOMEBODY WRITE ME A SAROV STORY I NEED SOME SAROV LOVE! ;_;**

Chapter 3

"Alexei," the General greeted courteously, nodding his head once in acknowledgment. He gestured gracefully to a seat directly beside him, on his right. "Please, sit down."

The man had long since changed into a more casual, though still elegant, pair of trousers and a dark button-up shirt. His steel-blue eyes seemed to glow in the fading daylight that streamed in through a floor-to-ceiling window.

Alex hesitated only for the slightest second. He didn't want to be anywhere near this man—let alone, sitting at his right-hand-side.

But his body remembered the eerie, chilling pain that had been inflicted upon him, and he found himself moving to the chair even before he'd made a conscious decision. He dropped into the padded seat stiffly. His hands lay clenched in his lap, his knuckles white and bloodless. He looked at his folded cloth napkin for a seconds —simply white and square—as he willed himself to dispel the phantom pains of the excruciating agony.

He dragged his gaze up as Sarov tucked a napkin into his collar, tipping his head back as he did so, exposing his pale white neck. Alex wondered bitterly if the silver dinner knives that lay on the table would be able to pierce flesh. "Tonight," the man said as servants unobtrusively entered the huge dining hall, pushing trolleys lightly laden with steaming food, "we have been prepared _svitanak_, with a side of Armenian Spinach."

A male servant quietly placed a plate heaped with food in front of him. Alex's brain whirred, processing what Sarov had said. Alex didn't recognize the names of the dishes. Russian, he concluded.

It felt like a stone had been dropped in his stomach. Sarov was already attempting to assimilate him into Russian culture. What was this, day one?

A chill worked its way up his spine. He masked the shudder by leaning forward in his seat, reaching for his glass of water. The rim was cold against his lips, and he paused before he could drink any of the liquid, his growing sense of paranoia screaming at him not to consume any unfamiliar liquids.

He knew that it was ridiculous to consider Sarov had kept him alive only to kill him later, but he couldn't quell the sense of distrust, nor did he want to.

But perhaps the water was laced with a drug—a sedative or relaxant? Maybe Sarov planned on doing nefarious things to him while he was helpless, like implanting a tracking chip beneath his skin… _but no_, Alex thought bitterly, suddenly uncomfortably aware of the sinister metal band encircling his ankle, _the anklet already took care of that. _

"I was not aware that my cups were so enthralling," Sarov suddenly spoke, his eyes watchful and dark with mild amusement. "You have held that glass against your lips for nearly two minutes without taking a single sip."

Alex felt a surge of irritation. He couldn't even drink water—or _not_ drink, in his case—in front of the man without getting a remark on it. Now he knew how the squids his class had dissected last year would have felt had they been alive—helplessly pinned, neatly split open so someone could thoroughly examine them…

He tipped his head back and drank deeply. The two ice cubes bobbed gently, clinking against each other quietly as he sucked water down. It was so cold it numbed his throat.

He wished it could numb his mind, too.

He set it down when he was finished.

"I would try the _svitanak _first," Sarov advised as he himself began to eat, diving into the main course. Alex noticed the bits of meat in Sarov's dish were still raw. Of course.

Alex pointedly picked up his fork and sampled the side dish first, flaunting his disobedience. He was determined to figure out how far he could push his parameters without getting another dose of agony from the anklet. How much could he push Sarov's buttons?

Sarov noticed his tiny act of rebellion. His eyes slid from Alex's loaded fork to the small, ragged strip of his old t-shirt he kept tied around his wrist.

"You never cease to impress me," he said quietly. Alex's body immediately froze as Sarov spoke, and he cursed himself a second later, hating how he had already trained himself to listen attentively. "However," Sarov continued, grunting slightly as he reached across the table for the pitcher of ice water, refilling his tall glass, "rebellion will not get you far in my household. I suspect that by now, you are committing these little acts of defiance in order to ascertain my limits… perhaps hoping you will catch me unawares… learn my weaknesses…"

He leaned forward, eyes bright. Alex put down his fork, fingers numb.

"You may be wondering how I know this…" He chuckled. It was a deep, brass sound, like a joyful father's laugh.

Alex _hated_ it.

"I am not a General for nothing, Alexei!"

Sarov finished his last bit of food, pushed his chair from the table and stood. Alex did not move, not even as he heard the man's solid footsteps round the table to where he sat. A hand settled on his shoulder.

"But keep in mind… weaknesses?"

A pause.

"I have none."

The hand lifted from his shoulder. The man strode away. Alex turned his face slightly so he could keep a wary eye on the retreating figure.

But Sarov did not look back.

**.**

**.**

Alex was promptly returned to his room the moment he'd finished eating. (Which took him a long time; he'd sort of lost his appetite during his rather one-sided conversation.) He was led back to his room, escorted by a group of three huge, armed guards, different from the ones who had clamped the anklet on his leg.

He idly wondered how much force it would take to knock out the leading man with a single kick, and his fingers twitched restlessly at his sides. Noticing this, the guard on his right—thick arms, cropped black hair and dark eyes—gave his bicep a hard warning squeeze. Alex took the hint and allowed himself to be led to his room like a leashed dog.

They locked his bedroom door behind him. Alex immediately squatted, examining the lock with quick, nimble fingers.

It was old-fashioned, and probably easy enough to pick, if he had suitable tools… but then there was the matter of the high-tech, sleek handprint scanner set into the glossy wood paneling. If Alex had to guess who's handprint had been keyed into it, he would say Sarov's.

He stood, sighing, and turned, managing to catch sight of the plasma screen TV angled in the upper corner of the room's ceiling. He frowned. That certainly hadn't been there before. His sharp eyes immediately picked up on the slim black remote placed on the middle of his tidied bed.

He picked it up and clicked it on. The screen smoothly flicked to life. A nicely-dressed woman sat behind a desk with another man beside her, both of them holding some papers. Their faces were solemn. Alex cranked up the volume a few notches, sitting down on the side of the bed. The woman spoke Russian so fast he could not hope to decipher what she said. A small banner scrolled across the bottom of the screen, probably issuing warnings judging by the skull-and-crossbones that ended and began each line of bold black text.

Then the newscast showing the reporters minimized slightly, allowing another video to take up half the screen.

The following images and short, shaky clips of utter destruction would haunt Alex for the rest of his life.

A landscape that had once showcased Russia's natural rugged beauty, now reduced to a black crater. Dead animals, their eyes glassy and blank, killed by deadly radiation. Buildings that had collapsed or been nearly entirely obliterated. A limp, burned hand poking out of the wreckage. Sobbing women clutching their husbands.

The next image flashed by so quickly that Alex barely saw it, but nevertheless, it burned itself onto his retinas.

A small girl, probably three years old, half buried in rubble. The skin on the side of her dirty, youthful face was horrifically bubbled and charred the facial bones poking through the raw bits of skin. One eye had been torn out, perhaps by scavengers, leaving behind a bloody gaping hole.

He froze in deadened shock, the remote slipping from his numb fingers and clattering to the floor.

The stream of images rolled on, but thankfully, Alex didn't see them; he'd sprinted to the bathroom and knelt in front of the gleaming white toilet, clutching his stomach as he vomited up his dinner.

He was sick and ashamed of himself. This was all his _fault_. If only he'd been faster, done _something _different… he might have saved all these people. The magnitude of his failure hit him like a freight train.

How had he not _felt _anything upon waking up, perfectly healthy and out of harm's way? How was he only realizing what had happened just now? What kind of _monster_ was he? What had MI6 turned him into, that he wouldn't bat an eye at the suffering of thousands?

And the worst part... was that the effects of the bomb were far from over. The nuclear plume was probably drifting to England even now.

His stomach twisted. Bile burned his throat and he hunched over, vomiting again. Small tremors wracked his slim body. Disgust seized his heart and refused to unfasten its grip. His eyes burned, and the next second, tears were silently coursing down his cheeks. He touched them lightly with a finger, shocked, holding up the drop of liquid so that it caught the artificial light.

Tears. When was the last time he had cried? Years ago?

A dim memory rose, unbidden, to the forefront of his mind. He was five, kicking a soccer ball around his backyard, and he'd slipped on a patch of muddy ground and fallen hard, breaking his arm in the process. He'd sobbed something awful and Ian had rushed to comfort him, holding him tightly even as he drove him to the hospital.

More tears welled up. He clenched his eyes shut, forming a trembling fist with one hand, the nails biting half-moons into his tan skin. He took several deep breaths, clamping down his emotions and nailing them tightly behind the cool, emotionless facade that a spy _should _have been able to maintain. _This is not my fault, _he told himself firmly, forcing himself to believe it. _This is… this is Sarov's fault. All Sarov's fault. _

Alex was certain he had never hated anyone as much as he hated Sarov right then.

As he shifted on his knees, reaching for the toilet paper to wipe his mouth, a long, thin, hard object in his pocket shifted, poking into his side. He smiled grimly, without humor, wiping away the last of his tears, his momentary bout of weakness, and removed the dinner knife he'd filched from the table, twisting it his palm so that beams of light ran down its length.

When the time for escape came… he'd make sure he was ready.

He hid the small knife under the bathroom rug and padded quietly out of the bathroom annex, somberly flicking off the television set, unable to bear watching anything else. He was sure now that Sarov had wished for him to see the newscast. Probably thought he'd be happy about it.

Suddenly emotionally and physically exhausted, he changed into the set of pajamas he'd been given, careful to keep the small piece of cloth from his old shirt tied around his wrist. Somehow, the sight of the dark strip renewed his resolve slightly.

He turned the lights off and fell wearily into bed, pulling the thick comforters all the way up to his neck, just like Ian used to do when he was small. His eyes still felt blotchy and warm.

_Not my fault, _he told himself again as he felt himself drifting off. _Not my fault. _

But the nightmares came anyway.

**.**

**.**

**;_; Poor Alex. I'm really screwing him up. So yes, this marks the beginning of the messing-up stage, where Alex starts to become a little more imbalanced every day. How would you all feel if you felt like you'd caused the death and suffering of thousands?**

**Review and I'll give you homemade beef jerky. (Cookies are overrated.)**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: So... hey. It's been a while. I actually wanted to post this a couple days ago, but my wifi is being stupid, and refuses to cooperate :(. Sorry about that.**

**Warning: Torture in this chapter. Sorry in advance if blood makes you queasy.**

**.**

**.**

One week later, Alex attempted his first escape.

_(It did not end well.)_

Well, it started much better than Alex had anticipated. On the way back from dinner with Sarov (still an uncomfortable, unbearable experience), Alex brought the stolen knife into play, quickly thudding the solid silver handle against his sole escort's temple, bringing the man to his knees. Alex knocked him into unconsciousness by expertly snapping a roundhouse kick into the side of the man's skull, downing him instantly. Alex was thankful Sarov had decreased the amount of men in his "guard" to only one person, confident in the mansion's security.

He dragged the hefty man by his underarms into a nearby closet and threw him inside, arranging a few buckets and mops in front of the limp body to provide some meager camouflage. He took the gun (a semi-automatic pistol) and the man's keycard, just in case.

One week had been long enough for Alex to map out the cameras' blindspots, and he utilized this knowledge fully, slipping from shadow to shadow, hiding in alcoves and nooks until the lenses robotically swept past him, pivoting on their hinges with the smallest whir.

There were fifteen minutes between each circuit of guards. Alex's heart beat furiously in his throat. If one guard, he knew, failed to report at a designated time, the alarm was instantly raised. He estimated he had ten minutes before the place went to hell.

Surprisingly enough, finding his way out of the mansion was quite easy. He used the keycard to gain access onto the deck that wrapped around the upper level of the house. He rappelled down the side of the house from the deck, using the old-fashioned method of tying the ends of sheets together to form a rope. Through his Rider luck, it seemed, he'd made it onto the freshly mowed grounds without a lick of trouble.

Now, the only thing standing in his way (literally) was the ten foot, razor wire-topped fence that enclosed the perimeters. Alex removed his wire cutters from his pocket, a tool he had found two days ago in the very same closet that he'd dumped the guard, and got to work.

Sweat beaded on his fair brow. Four minutes.

_Snick. Snick. Snick. _

His fingers ached from the pressure needed to cleanly cut each wire. He felt horribly exposed, even though a thick cover of darkness hid him. There was no moon tonight, as Alex had correctly predicted, which both aided and inhibited him. Without a source of light, he was hard-pressed to make out each intertwined strand of metal. But the guards shouldn't be able to make out his crouched form. Hopefully.

Finally, he had cut a ragged hole big enough for his slim body to slim through. The sharp ends of the metal raked any skin not covered by his clothes, drawing warm blood, but Alex did not particularly care. One particularly sharp piece snagged his shirt, tearing out a small chunk. Alex left it. It fluttered slightly in the gentle breeze.

As he wrenched himself free, he realized how lucky he was that the fence hadn't been electrified, unlike the similarly imposing one at Casa de Oro.

He stumbled to his feet and ran blindly into the thick outcropping of rugged forest.

**.**

**.**

He made it about a half mile before the stubborn anklet clinging to his leg heated ominously. Alex cussed wildly. He'd taken the wire cutters to the cursed thing, but they hadn't succeeded in cutting through the sturdy metal, much less even nicking it. Neither had he been able to gather information on it during his weeklong stay. It hadn't been removed once. He could wear it in the shower, and it dealt fine in water. It truly seemed indestructible.

Perspiration slicked his hair, plastering it to his forehead, and each breath was heavy, heaving and labored from adrenalin and anxiety. Cool night air rolled across his warm skin.

He stumbled to a halt, nearly losing his footing in the loamy earth, and only had time to snarl wordlessly in frustrated defiance before the anklet flared again. The pain hit a moment later.

Paralyzed, he made some sort of harsh choking noise that got stuck halfway in his throat. His body seized up and toppled silently. One moment, he'd been upright, the next, he felt like everything was tilting, and suddenly everything was sideways and his cheek was pressed into the cool, crumbly dirt. Every nerve receptor in his body was burning in utter agony. He was completely helpless. Had his heart stopped beating? Was he still breathing? It was hard- he couldn't think-

Little mewls of distressed agony trickled from his slack mouth. His fingers twitched spasmodically as the episode continued, stretching on, even longer than the first time Sarov had activated the anklet. _God, kill me now._

After an indeterminable amount of time, the pain subsided, leaving him a crumpled, near lifeless heap of limp limbs on the ground. Breathing hurt. His muscles, tensed to the point of being painful, relaxed slowly, little bolts of hot pain sinking into the tissue as they unclenched. The cool earth beneath his cheek was blissful.

He tried to swallow, failed, tried to comprehend what this meant for his escape attempt, what it meant for him, but thinking was too much effort, and he let his eyelids slip shut in terrified resignation.

**.**

**.**

Sarov was serious about that whipping.

Two uniformed guards tied his wrists securely to the legs of the dining room's heavy table, where Alex had sat and eaten a meal only hours ago. The ropes were painfully tight. Alex hissed in a breath of pain as they cut into his skin. He bucked weakly in protest, but his body trembled with the effort. The anklet had sapped him of so much of his strength. The envoy Sarov had sent to pick him up had been forced to drag him into the car, and carry him into the house.

"It pains me to have to do this, Alex," the General said. His cold voice cut through Alex's frantic thoughts like an icy knife. Alex noted the use of 'Alex' and not 'Alexei'. It was as if someone had dropped a bucket of ice into his stomach. Sarov was very, very mad. "But you have disobeyed me. And it is a father's duty to discipline his rebellious child."

_I'm not your child, _Alex wanted to say, his dry lips shaped the sentence soundlessly, but strangely, he could not force the words out.

His shirt had been removed earlier, and his wandering eyes focused on it now, limp and slung dejectedly over the top of one of the high-backed dining chairs. They'd taken the gun and the keycard from him as well.

"I think thirty lashes will be sufficient, no?"

The footsteps backed away, giving space, as louder, heavier footfalls approached. The wood creaked slightly underneath the gargantuan combat boots.

"You may begin, Conrad," Sarov granted, as amiable and polite as if handing someone a dish at the dinner table.

Alex tensed, shut his eyes, clenched his jaw firmly, but still heard the sharp crack of the whip, felt the leather slice into his already tender skin like a heated knife, delivering more pain to his overloaded senses. He arched his back from the blow, instinctual tears welling up in his eyes, causing him to blink rapidly. This was medieval, something cruel and wicked and demeaning. Hadn't people died from being whipped?

He had twenty-nine _more_ of these to endure?

Conrad was smart, efficient in his torture. He allowed Alex a brief moment of respite to catch his breath, before he pulled back the whip and let loose another lash.

Alex took it silently, the sinewy muscles in his back quivering jumpily under the blow. He desperately wished he had something to bite into, something to muffle the agonized sounds that would surely break forth soon.

_Crack!_

Pause.

_Crack!_

Pause.

_Crack!_

Conrad continued the terribly effective pattern until, on what would be the eleventh lash, Sarov stepped forward, halting him with a raised hand.

"A moment please, Conrad?"

Sarov approached Alex, knelt by his quietly shaking frame. "Apologize, Alex, and I will stop this right now," he offered, using a firm, yet oddly soft tone of voice. "Forsake your pride, you mulish boy, and _apologize_."

Alex wanted to. He wanted to very badly. Never before he he experienced so much pain in the course of a simple week. He was very tired. Tired and sick.

And yet... and yet the tatters of his dignity and pride refused to permit him to utter a single word of acquiescence. He thought of the victims he had seen on the television, fueling his resolve. That little girl, with the torn out eye and the charred face. How much worse was their predicament than his?

He shook his head mutely. Tiny drops of sweat scattered everywhere at the motion. Damp hair fell into his slightly shut eyes.

"No?" Sarov questioned in disbelief.

Alex, still trembling from pain, jerkily shook his head again.

"Very well." Any calming tone that had laced Sarov's words left, leaving his voice deep and coldly impassive. The powerful man straightened, gesturing to Conrad as he paced away again. "You may continue, Conrad."

On the eleventh lash, the braided leather broke the skin of Alex's back, drawing a line of crimson blood. Alex cried out, twisting in his bindings. The water that had gathered in his eyes suddenly overflowed, trickling down his cheeks. Each breath was ragged now, loud and noticeable.

Conrad delighted in this, and each following lash grew in ferocity. Rivulets of hot blood ran down Alex's back, painting red lines like the tributaries of a river. The trails dripped off his side and stained his pants with blooming red, like a budding rose, like the shade of lipstick that Jack liked, like the red stripes on each peppermint wrapper that Mrs. Jones compulsively stripped from the candy-

Alex watched his blood splatter quietly on the wooden floor, pooling in the tight cracks between each floorboard.

At lash twenty-three, Alex passed out briefly.

He came to a few moments later, brought back by the sensation of inquisitive fingers prodding his fluttering eyelids. When his lids twitched into wakefulness, his eyelashes brushing the skin of the person's fingertips, they withdrew.

"He's awake. Continue."

_Dear God, let it end._

A haze of pain shrouded his mind. As if from far away, he heard someone's violent, choking sobs, the product of someone obviously attempting to be quiet but failing miserably. His frame shivered violently. Songs played in his mind, random snatches of tunes, pictures exploded across his retinas, anything to distract from the awful pain-

When the rain of lashes ended at last, Alex was barely clinging to the last vestiges of consciousness, slumped over heavily, dangling above the floor only by the ropes that bound his arms. The artificial light from the chandelier glittered off his scarlet back.

Fingers freed his wrists, loosed the tight, rough-fibered ropes that cut into his skin. He dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes, his back shrieking shrilly in protest as the movement stretched his lacerated skin.

Large hands, blessedly cool and dry, lifted him up, one supporting the crook of his bent legs, the other curling around his wounded back to get a secure grip on his shoulder. At the touch, the fire ravaging his back increased, and his body trembled as a sob worked its way past the knot in his throat.

_Pathetic._

"Have a servant bring a medical kit to his room and clean the floor," a voice above him issued orders softly. The chest his head was leaned against rumbled as he spoke.

Alex passed out again.

At the feeling of being turned over on his stomach, laid on something soft and inviting, his eyelids flickered once more. Consciousness was a slippery thing, sometimes drawing near and sometimes receding, like the waves on a beach. Everything was surreal. For one long delirious moment, Alex thought he was actually at the ocean, with the sun beating down on his back and sand tickling his cheek.

"This will hurt, Alexei," he dimly heard a voice admit, as if from a long way away. "But we must clean them."

The smell of medical disinfectant pierced Alex's nostrils, rousing him a bit more. He restlessly lolled his head, a pounding sense of foreboding was ringing bells in his head frantically. He hazily knew that what was about to happen would not be pleasant. The mattress underneath his cheek was quickly growing damp with the leftover tears that managed to escape his ducts.

A soaked rag was gingerly laid on his bloody stripes, and Alex instantly screamed into the mattress, writhing, trying to throw the cloth off in the hopes of ending the fiery agony that had once more dug its claws into his back. His fingers clutched fistfuls of the sheet underneath him. Strong hands held him down as the disinfectant did its work. A voice whispered small comforting noises into his ear, a hand smoothed his sweaty bangs from his forehead. The agony did not begin to dull until a full minute had passed, when at last the disinfectant finished its work. Alex's throat ached from suppressed sobs.

Finally, the rag was pulled away. Alex caught a blurry glimpse of it through bleary eyes; limp, red, weighed down by the amount of blood it had absorbed. Hands applied a freezing gel to the deep, agitated lacerations, helping immensely to combat the burning that was surely turning his body to ash and cinders. A thick pad of gauze was secured to his back, snugly fitting the curve of his spine. A sheet was pulled over his body, up to his neck. Alex's slitted eyes closed again. He lay still, in shock and in too much pain to think properly.

The hands returned to his hair, now clean of any of the gel, uncaring of the sweat that drenched each strand. A dim memory registered in Alex's groggy mind; of a time when he had only been, what, seven years old, and Ian used to put him to bed the same way. The pads of the fingers massaged his scalp gently, raising goosebumps on his arms.

"The improvised rope was a brilliant move," the voice said; rolling, slow and quiet and like a big car making its way down a country lane. "I don't think the maids will be happy about the loss of sheets, but brilliant, nonetheless. As were the wire cutters. Did you find those in the closet, you incredible child? And yet you still have not been taught how to handle a gun- I think we shall fix that, sometime in the future, eh? A hunting trip, just you and me." Alex dimly registered the sudden change in tone as it gained a dark edge.

"I'm afraid, however, that Darren- the man you quite capably incapacitated- is no longer with us. I cannot afford to employ incompetent men in my service."

Sarov's rumbling voice reached him from a long tunnel, soft and muffled, as calm and collected as a father reading a story to his child. Alex sighed briefly, reflexively scrunching his hands in the sheets, relishing in the feeling of fingertips gently carding through his hair, dancing over his scalp as they carefully parted each strand- the first sensation that had not caused him considerable pain.

A long-suffering sigh. For a moment, fingers deviated from his hair, slipping downwards temporarily to smooth the pad of a thumb across the ridge of his cheekbone, following the planes and angles of his face. "I hope you do not make me do this again, Alexei. It pains me to see you in such a broken state. I receive no joy from watching you suffer, contrary to what you might think."

Alex- Alexei- who was he again?- was floating, ebbing away, like leaves scattered in a wind, tugged by the dark tendrils of unconsciousness that lapped greedily at his mind.

The fingers ceased their movement, retreating from his messy head of hair.

"What kind of father would I be if I did?"

Dry lips pressed briefly to the crown of his forehead, lingering for a second before pulling away. The sensation followed Alex down into the blurry abyss.

For the first time that week, he slept too deeply for the nightmares to reach him.


End file.
